Fiddleford McGucket Saves the World
by ComedyFan2086
Summary: This story can be many things. It can be a story of friendship, and the prevalence of the truth. It can also be a tale of how even the smallest thing can change the universe, for the better or the worst. Above all though, it is a story of malevolent spirits, pure evil, and Tabasco sauce.
1. Chapter 1 - The Mysterious House

**Hello! This is my first Gravity Falls fic, as well as my first try at an AU.**

 **To any Americans out there, if you know any New Jersey facts or terminology which you think might be interesting, please do leave it in form of review or message. Your country is stupidly big, and I don't know nearly enough about it. I'm not even completely convinced it's actually real. Prove yourself to be real!**

* * *

Fiddleford had long since stopped looking out the coach window.

When he'd first set out from his hometown of Hazard, Tennessee, he'd stared in fascination at the sleepy green landscapes and farms as the coach rolled on through Tennessee and on through the state of Kentucky. He was only nine years of age, and had never left Tennessee before. By the time they'd crossed the border between West Virginia and Pennsylvania, however, his excitement had waned considerably. When he was bored usually he practiced on his banjo, but looking at his fellow passengers, Fiddleford doubted that would be wise. He tiredly shuffled a pack of cards his Pa had given him, as the hours marched on. As the time passed, the villages they passed seemed to get bigger, until they turned into towns, even small cities.

Then at last, New Jersey. When the _Rapid Raccoon_ coach finally pulled into the bus terminal of Glass Shard beach, it was seven in the evening. The boy jumped to his feet, fell down, quickly gave his feet a quick massage to wake them up, got back to his feet, and fished his luggage out from under his seat. He climbed off the bus, sighing at his new surroundings.

The sun was already setting, since it was mid-October. In the distance, Fiddleford could see the hazy outline of a funfair on the quay. A Ferris wheel, almost as big as the lighthouse. Perhaps his Aunt Clara would let him visit it sometime...

"Why are you standing there gawping like that?" demanded a sharp voice beside him. "I had to get a taxi to get here, you know. You're wasting time." He gazed up at the thin wiry figure looming over him.

Fiddleford himself had only the dimmest recollections of his Aunt Clara, although he knew she was his mother's sister, and had moved to the east coast pretty much the second she could when she was younger. She'd visited a few times when he was just a baby. Ma had given him a photograph of her sister "just in case", and the woman seemed to fit the description; tall, wearing drab but respectful clothes and a tiny pair of glasses barely balanced on her nose. She had the faintest tinge of a Southern accent on her tongue, but spoke in controlled tones, almost as if she were embarrassed of it.

"Yes ma'am. Sorry ma'am." Aunt Clara sniffed.

"Well. At least your father hasn't managed to wring _all_ the manners out of you yet. You will call me 'ma'am' or 'Aunt Clara' from now on, alright? I don't hold with 'Auntie', or other disrespectful terms like that. Now come on. The taxi is waiting." With that the woman strode away across the dusty tarmac, making Fiddleford trot behind with his luggage.

Fiddleford focused on the streets outside as they took the taxi to Aunt Clara's house in the Lead Paint district. It seemed to be a very vibrant and densely populated area; there were more people just strolling on the sidewalks than actually lived in town back home. He saw a few boys his age, and his pulse quickened. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all, he thought, if he got to make some friends.

"I'll expect you to be out of the house during the day, apart from mealtimes," noted his aunt at last. It wasn't so much a request as a statement. "I'm sure there's plenty of bad types for you to fall in with, as young boys do. And you did come here for fresh sea air, so you have to be outside at least some of the time." The taxi came to a halt. "Here we are. Don't forget your things."

Aunt Clara's house was an old robust-looking thing made of brick, as tall and thin as the owner, and fenced by a forboding iron railing. From looking at it, Fiddleford could count three floors counting the attic. Imagine so much space belonging to just one person!

"Wowee! I didn' know your house was so big, ma'am!"

"The houses are very cheap around here, compared to New York anyway. Don't be fooled; the street is back to back with a Tabasco sauce factory. And talk properly, for goodness sake."

"Sorry." It occurred to Fiddleford as he followed his aunt into the house that this "sea air" that everyone was yapping on about wasn't so nice after all. It smelled an awful lot like automobile gas and Tabasco sauce to him.

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair. Aunt Clara was obviously used to eating alone, and Fiddleford had to perch on a wire garden chair with several cushions to eat his sausages and boiled potatoes. He was quite short for his age, it had to be said. After ten minutes of eating in silence, Fiddleford risked a question.

"Say, Aunt Clara?" His aunt gave a noise of acknowledgement. "What'd you do as a job?" For once, it seemed as though he'd said the right thing, as Aunt Clara gave a hint of a smile.

"I'm actually a few things. At the moment, I'm writing a book about archaeology. I took a Masters in it, you see, while I lived in Manhattan." There was no mistaking the pride in her voice. "Although of course, that doesn't pay well. So during the day, I work as a typist."

"What's that?"

"I copy letters for a businessman."

"What do the letters say?"

"Complaints, mostly. Or asking for money."

"Oh. Do you like doin' that?"

A crease appeared between Aunt Clara's eyebrows. "That's quite enough questions for one day. Boys talk too much, and they're far too curious. Now eat your sausage- it's expensive." Fiddleford dutifully ate his expensive sausage, then made himself scarce to put his things upstairs.

The room he'd been assigned was on the first floor at the back of the house, which meant that if he stood high on his toes, he could peer over the cinderblock wall of the Tabasco sauce factory. The smell was strong and spicy, and made his eyes water if he breathed in too deeply, but was oddly warming. As he got out his pajamas, and retrieved his toothbrush for bedtime, he wondered what could possibly be waiting for him here. After all, he was here for six months at least. Surely _something_ had to happen before he was allowed to go home...

Twenty minutes later, in his pajamas and in bed, he realised he'd completely forgotten to say his prayers. Only been in a foreign land for a couple of hours, and already he'd become a heathen! But the covers were so musty and warm, and his legs somehow didn't want to move... perhaps it wouldn't hurt if he just said them here? God could hear you anywhere, Ma had told him, not just at the end of the bed.

"Dear Lord," he mumbled, his eyes slowly slipping shut. "Please bless Aunt Clara, and let me make a friend while I'm here, however long that is. And please help everyone back home in Hazard, especially Ma. Amen..."

And Fiddleford fell asleep.

* * *

 **So, first chapter! Good? Bad? Terrible? Meh?**

 **No seriously, are you even alive?! ANSWER ME! *sigh* Anonymous users.**


	2. Chapter 2 - The Pines Twins

**VSRLOHU: LQ WKLV VWRUB, PGJXGNHW VWDBV VDQH.**

 **-Although of course, you might have guessed that already!**

* * *

The next day, Fiddleford was woken up early by the smell of Tabasco sauce, which had quadrupled in strength and potency since he'd fallen asleep in his new bed. There was also a deep thrum within the walls of the house, which confirmed that the factory had woken up for the day. Fiddleford was amazed, having never seen a man work on a Sunday in his life.

"I didn't think it'd be workin', on account of it being a Sunday an' all," he commented off-handedly at breakfast. Aunt Clara looked up from her mushroom omelette and sighed.

"Machines don't have a day of rest, Fiddleford," she pointed out. "Things like that are done by them these days. Why do you think everyone here is out of a job?" Fiddleford thought about this. Although it wasn't fair, he could see the merit. Imagine having a machine to do whatever you wanted.

"Now. It's seven am. I need to be at the Museum of Artifacts by eight, and I'll be staying there all day. I'm taking the key, so you can go out and not come back till five, or you can stay inside all day."

He considered the option carefully. He was curious about the rest of the house, especially the attic, but there'd be plenty of time to explore in the evening. Also, school started the next day, and he'd have to wait almost a week before he could go out again. "I'll... go to the beach, if it's all the same to you, ma'am."

"I was hoping you'd say that. Here's two dollars. Use them wisely, you won't eat again till dinnertime." Fiddleford took them gratefully, and headed out, making sure to take his banjo with him.

Playing his banjo - and music in general - was one of Fiddleford's biggest comforts from back home. His Pa had got him into it, and said he was getting quite good. There was no way he was going to go three months without practicing at all. But one thing he knew about the banjo was that it wasn't a born crowd-pleaser. So what he was looking for was a quiet, isolated spot where he could play and retune and sing to his heart's content. But where, in a city like this, could he hide? He finally opted to head for the beach, being careful to watch where he was going so he would be able to find his way back.

* * *

Fiddleford walked along the beach, despondent. He'd been walking for what felt like hours, counting the muddled trek through town in search of the shore, and his stomach was already rumbling. He looked at his wristwatch, swiping aside his homemade maroon jumper to get a look at it. It was only eleven o'clock. Eleven o'clock! He'd never last another six hours, even if he got a sandwich or soup with his two dollars right then. If only he had some music to take his mind off things...

And then, just when he was losing all hope, he saw it. A tiny yacht, broken and abandoned, on the shore, far from the stores which lined the promenade. Fiddleford couldn't believe his luck. Not only did he know his way round, he had a den too! He'd fit in here in no time, he told himself, if he had his own secret base.

He approached the boat with caution, his banjo slung over his back with a makeshift leather strap. He knocked loudly on the side of the wooden vessel. A rat skittered out onto the sand, but nothing else stirred. The wood wasn't even that rotten. Satisfied that the yacht was now his own to keep, Fiddleford climbed in through a decent-sized hole in the hull.

It was the perfect hiding place. Although it was small and cramped, and smelt strongly of barnacles, a stream of light through another hole ensured the space was well lit. The smell could be dealt with later, he rationalised. For now, he had a place to play. Eagerly, he retrieved the banjo from his back, and pondered on what he should play. Maybe his country cover of "Love Me Do" that he'd been working on? Or something else...

While he was deciding, his restless fingers struck a lazy G-chord.

"WHATAHELLDYATHINKYADOIN!" Fiddleford shrieked in terror, as a grumpy-looking head poked through the top of his hiding spot, upside down. The head had messy brown hair, impressive sunburn, and was covered in dirt. A second later, the frown became puzzled. "What're _you_ lookin' at, short stuff?"

"Stanley, don't be mean." Another head dropped down to see what the commotion was. This one was slightly less filthy than the other, and a pair of glasses slipped around on his nose. "He might not have known the _Stan o' War_ belonged to anybody."

"Well, he should've looked at our work." The kid without glasses jabbed a finger at the inside of the hull. For the first time, Fiddleford noticed that two names had been written there. _Stanley and Stanford Pines._ Twins, he assumed."What you got to say now?" Stanley sneered. "This here's Pines property, so get out." The other twin, the one who'd stood up for him earlier, shrugged.

"Well, it is sort of our boat," he explained. "You can request permission to come aboard if you want. That's allowed."

"P-P-P-Permission to come aboard, captain?" Fiddleford squeaked, clutching his banjo.

"Permission granted!" Stanford looked delighted. "See, Stanley? _He_ thinks _I'm_ the captain!"

"He's just a little kid, what does he know?" Stanley argued. Then, his frown cleared as he noticed Fiddleford's instrument. "Huh. You play the banjo?"

"Uh... yes." At that moment, all hostility vanished in an instant as if it had never been there. They jumped down from their perches.

"Woah, that's amazing!"

"That is so awesome!"

"Is it really hard to learn?"

"Can you play anything by Elvis Presley?"

"Of course he can't! Presley is for nerds and cat ladies."

"Actually, I do know a couple songs of Elvis'," Fiddleford heard himself say. He played the first few chords of _Can't Help Falling In Love_ with a fast-paced rhythm, to the amazement of the Pines twins. "I know it's kinda soppy..."

"Are you kidding? I'd love to be able to do that! You did it so fast; I could barely see your fingers move at all." Stanford pointed towards the neck of the banjo. As he did so, he got a proper look at the twin's hands. One, two, three, four... _five_ fingers, and a thumb. His eyes flickered to Stanley's hands. Only four fingers. Which were currently clenched in a fist. Looking up at the scowling face, it occurred to Fiddleford that a lot of other people would probably be surprised by this too. And most likely were. Dragging his eyes away from Stanley's warning look, he turned to Stanford.

"So you like Elvis, huh Stanford?" Stanley's face relaxed at last, and he allowed his fists to come loose. Stanford, meanwhile, tried to fake disinterest.

"His music is okay, I suppose, if you like that kind of-"

"He freakin' loves him," informed Stanley gravely. "He sings it in the bathroom all the time. Like this-" Ignoring his twin brother's protests, he launched into an impression of a bathroom concert. "WIIIIISE MEEEHN SAAAAY, ONLY FOOOOOLS RUUUSH IIIIN-"

"It's not anything like that!" insisted Stanford, as he wrestled his brother to the ground. "He's a true musician! Don't listen to him..." He stopped suddenly, standing up and facing Fiddleford. "What did you say your name was?"

"F-Fiddleford."

"Gesundheit," said Stanley cheerfully, holding out a grimy hand. "Nice to meet you, Fidds. I'm Stan, and I'm the cool one. Me and that nerd are both ten."

"I'm goin' on ten in December."

"Pull the other one."

"No, really, I am!" insisted Fiddleford. "I'm a-stayin' here with my aunt for a while."

"Do you always do that? Add extra bits to words when you're mad?"

"Stan, don't be rude!" scolded Stanford. "Glad to meet you, Fiddleford. Hey, it's around lunchtime. We were going to work on the _Stan o' War_ in the afternoon, but we brought lunch."

"Um, it's alright. I brought money, see?" Fiddleford showed them his two dollars. Stan's eyes lit up.

"Hey, what'd ya say we pool resources?" he said, only slightly too eager-looking. "We brought sandwiches, and oranges. We could get something else and share everything." Stanford rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"That... does sound sensible. So long as none of us mind spending the two dollars now? Hey, it's your money, so you call what we spend it on." Fiddleford thought long and hard.

"I've always wanted to try an Oreo cookie," he admitted. "They don't sell them where I'm from."

"INTERVENTION!" yelled Stan. "As health experts, we will not allow you to go another day without knowing the joy of biting into a chocolatey, grainy, creamy cookie! Very well. Today we shall feast on sandwiches, oranges... and Oreos."

* * *

 **What can I say? This is how men bond, right? Over biscuits, I mean. I have no idea; I just love cookies.**


	3. Chapter 3 - First Day

**Okay, we're two chapters in - time to thicken the plot with some metaphorical plain flour! Enter the BAD GUY!**

* * *

On Monday, Fiddleford had porridge for breakfast, like he had done the day before. However unlike the last, this bowl had a letter "F" written in a beautiful copperplate hand in honey on the surface of the porridge. Aunt Clara had just sniffed when he'd thanked her.

"Honey is excellent for nerves," she'd claimed imperiously. "better than anaesthetic, I believe. It had nothing to do with being 'nice', nothing at all." Fiddleford wondered whether packing someone's knapsack for them the night before was 'good for nerves' too. Apparently it was. Fiddleford put on his most well-fitting sweater, his favourite in a shade of bottle green, made an attempt to tame his hair, and set off for school.

Glass Shard Elementary was a two-storey concrete building on the outskirts of town, where a few saplings poked up through the tarmac. Glass Shard Beach didn't have a lot of money to spend, but there had been a brief period when the council had taken a particular interest in education. Which was how Morris the Mining Mole had been conceived. On paper in an office in the late thirties, he'd looked harmless enough; a cheerful pink-and-grey statue with a mining helmet, a cheeky smile, and overalls which read "MINING FOR SUCCESS!" in big cheery visible letters. However, twenty-odd years of standing in a schoolyard, exposed to the bare elements and budding graffiti artists, had reduced dear old Morris to what he was now; a grey shapeless mass of hollow plastic, with no discernible features save the barely visible letters on his chest, which now read: "THIS WAY FOR SUCKERS!"

It was this Morris that greeted Fiddleford McGucket on his first day at school, eyeing the boy with his blank, sightless eyes. Odd choice of mascot, he thought to himself, as he uneasily edged past the sinister creature, and through the double doors.

He approached the school secretary. "Uh, h-howdy. I'm a-lookin' for my new class. Name's McGucket?" He was beginning to hate how his accent flared up when he was nervous or angry. He'd never be ashamed of being a so-called hillbilly, but in Jersey it didn't feel right to talk like that. It was... different. He was beginning to see why Aunt Clara wasn't exactly proud of it either. The secretary smiled at him, and he felt a bit more at ease.

"Your homeroom is in room A2. Once you get there your teacher will give you your timetable and a jotter. It has a map in it, so you'll be able to get around. Did you get all of that?" Fiddleford nodded eagerly. "Great. You have a few minutes before school starts." As if on cue, the bell went, and about a hundred students came through the door at once. Just when he was starting to properly panic, a hand clapped on his shoulder.

"Hey, Fidds!" It was Stanley. He grinned widely. "Don't worry, it's just me- Ford is trying to unstick his locker. Starting in fourth grade, huh? I'm a grade above, so's Ford. Double bummer we can't be together, but there you go. Still, do you wanna sit with us at lunch?"

"Sure. Thanks! Say, I'm uh, lookin' for room A2? I have homeroom there. Any idea where it is?"

"Absolutely! Just go down the hall there, and it's on your right." Stan thumped Fiddleford only slightly too hard, and someone called his name. "Smell ya later, short stuff! You got this!" As Fiddleford watched him go, it occurred to him how fortunate it was that he'd met such helpful and good people as the Pines twins, and on his first day in Jersey no less.

Three milliseconds later, he was elbowed in the face.

* * *

"So, how did it go?" asked Ford curiously, as they started on their lunch.

Fiddleford started. "How'd what go?"

"Your introduction, genius," Stanley supplied, taking a huge bite of his corned beef sandwich. "A2 is Mr Junckleburg's room. So, again: how'd it go?"

"Uh, okay I guess. I ended up doing a jig toward the end."

"Wait, you did a WHAT?!" Ford looked horrified. "Why?!"

"I jig when I'm nervous," admitted Fiddleford, rubbing his arms awkwardly. "Or happy. Sometimes if I just feel okay! I can't really help it."

Stanley swallowed. Partly because he was anxious for his new friend's immediate future, but mostly because he was eating his sandwich. "Dude, you're gonna die. You know that?"

"Stanley!" Ford punched him in the shoulder. "Don't listen to him, you'll be fine. So long as you don't attract any more... attention."

"Think I can manage that." Fiddleford opened his packed lunch eagerly. Next to his sandwich was a packaged snack of some kind. He inspected it carefully. "Hmm. 'Dippety Dunky Doodah- Like holding onto soap in the tub but harder'?" He considered the treat, then shrugged. "Eh. What harm can it do?" Fiddleford tore the paper wrapper- and the yellow bar promptly shot out, hitting the teacher supervising in the back of the head. "Huh."

The teacher, who he recognised as Mr Junckleburg, spun round with a face like thunder. He was a sour-faced man with a black greasy moustache, which Fiddleford could've sworn had a bit of fish in it. "WHO THREW THAT?" He bellowed. The cafeteria fell completely silent. "Well? I'm waiting! It was YOU, was it not, sir!" Fiddleford shrunk back; before he realised that the accusing finger was not in fact turned on him, but one of his companions.

"It wasn't me, sir!" claimed Stan defensively. "I know it turned out to be me the other fourteen times that you've accused me, but THIS time I'm innocent! Mostly."

"He's tellin' the truth, sir," Fiddleford piped up eagerly, wanting to clear Stan of blame. "Ya see, I accidentally-"

"Hey!" The man gave a laugh. "You're that freaky-talking kid who danced with his feet under the desk all the way through homeroom. It is the most ridiculous thing I ever saw! Like this-" Mr Junckleburg proceeded to do a grossly over exaggerated version of the dance. A lot of people laughed, and the people nearest to them edged away. Fiddleford felt his ears going bright red, and he attempted to hide his face. "Ha ha ha! Ho ho. Heh. Although seriously; Pines and Pines, detention after school. For striking a defenseless adult."

"Aww, what?!" Stan moaned. Ford frowned.

"Wait. What did I do again?"

"You look too alike. It freaks me out, and it's unfair on everyone else. Don't do it any more, is that clear?" Seeing there was no point in arguing, the Pines twins nodded dumbly. "Now, I think we can get on with our lunches without those wastes of space. Right, everyone?" Quickly, the other kids in the cafeteria continued eating.

"Great," Stan muttered. "Now we get to spend half an hour with that creep... Wait, where'd Fiddleford go?"

"I... don't know..."

* * *

When the twins finally exited the school gate at four thirty, a familiar face greeted them.

"Fiddleford? Where were you all day?" Ford asked. "You just disappeared at lunch."

"Hey fellas." Fiddleford forced a laugh. "Uh, I brought- for, well- because- sorry." He held out a package. "It's hard-boiled eggs. Still warm. Made them at Aunt Clara's." The boy took them, still bemused.

"Well thanks, Fidds, but I still don't know why you-"

"I messed up, alright? I should have stood up for y'all a bit more; told him that I did it. And I was gonna, I swear. But then he did the dance, and everyone was making fun of it and it just sorta... well, that don't matter. Stanley, can you forgive me?"

The other twin regarded him in tense silence. Fiddleford sighed deeply. "I know. I don't blame you for giving me the silent trea-"

"No, no! Don't worry, he's not mad. He just can't talk at the moment. Junkers had him licking envelopes," explained Ford. "For the whole session."

"I thant ftheel ny thongue," confirmed Stan sadly. "Ith's all good doh."

"Are you sure?" The twin nodded, giving a thumbs up. "Yee-haw! That's great!"

"Same to you." Ford began to peel the shell off his egg, as they headed towards town. "How _do_ you heal tongues, do you think? Do you have special tongue exercises in hospitals? Ooh, I know! Stan, try this tongue twister. Repeat after me: she sells sea shells on the sea shore..."

* * *

 **So that's the bad guy, alongside Crampelter. I can't make a rival as awesome and scary as Bill Cipher unfortunately, since I'm not a genius, so I had to settle on two smaller, slightly gross ones with "issues". Don't worry, the other MYSTERY BADDIE is a doozy!**


	4. Chapter 4 - The Outing

**Just a bit of light fun for this chapter, I'm afraid. But never fear! In the next chapter, the dark side of one of the characters will be revealed! And I know what you're thinking. Who, out of three innocent little boys, and a mysterious spinster who lives in a creepy old house, could POSSIBLY have anything to hide? You'll have to wait and see, after this installment!**

* * *

"Hey, Fiddleford?" The three boys were huddled in the _Stan o' War,_ to shelter from the pelting autumn rain. It was a Saturday, and they were damp and a bit miserable. Stanford and Fiddleford were playing cards, while Stanley drew monsters in chalk on the inside of the hull.

"Hmm?" He looked up at Stan curiously.

"How come you always squint when you look at stuff?"

"What'd ya mean?"

"Well, whenever you're reading something far away or thinking really hard, you do this." Stan screwed his face up tightly. "Sorry, but ya do."

Fiddleford scowled. "I do _not!_ My eyesight is just fine, thank you."

"Okay then, prove it to us. How about..." Ford scanned the beach through the sheet of rain through the entrance. "There! Can you read that sign? Right here, right now." He pointed to a blurry object about ten metres away, near the lone lifeguard's chair. Fiddleford squinted. He was pretty sure that was the sign. Did it even _have_ writing on it? He'd have to wing it.

"...Er... 'Do not swim without lifeguard'?" he guessed desperately.

"Actually it says, 'Check your swimsuit for glass shards before you leave, especially the crotch area'."

"Pfft. Who the heck can read that much text at that distance, anyway?"

"I can!" claimed Stan proudly. "An' I'm supposed to be the less intelligent one, who makes it up with good looks and charisma!"

"Not helping, Stanley."

"Sorry."

"Alright, Fidds." Ford sighed, laying down a card. "If you want to deny the truth, then go right ahead. But I remember what it was like before I got my eyes checked, and I didn't have anywhere near as bad eyesight as you do."

"Doo doo doo," hummed Fiddleford, putting down three more. "Denying the truth, da da..."

"Fine." And nothing more was said about it for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

"Stupid twins," Fiddleford grumbled on his way home, not noticing the seeping coldness in his feet as he walked right through a puddle. "What do they know about it? I'm fine just the way I am. And who needs to see super far like them, if you _obviously_ can't even notice what's right under your- OUCH!" He promptly crashed into something soft and warm. Which looked and smelt like duffle coats and Tabasco sauce.

"Ah Fiddleford, there you are," said Aunt Clara pleasantly, as her nephew regained his balance. "I was waiting for you. It looked like you were going to walk right past our house, but that would be ridiculous. I've got an appointment in half an hour at the local optician's, and you're coming with me. Not a moment to lose." She strode off, with Fiddleford half-running behind. He noticed, as they walked, how out of place she looked, anywhere other than the tall thin house which they called home. The idea of his stringent aunt, very set in her ways, actually making polite conversation and making allowances for other human beings, seemed to him like a very odd concept.

"Are you goin' to get your eyes checked, Aunt Clara?" Fiddleford panted, as they reached the shops.

"Oh, this isn't my appointment," she said casually. "It's yours, in fact." The boy stopped dead in his tracks.

"M-me? But, why? I'm completely healthy!"

"Fiddleford, you are clearly at least a little bit short-sighted," Aunt Clara told him bluntly. "Honestly, I'm surprised that your parents didn't cotton on sooner. Every time you read text written smaller than a picture book, your face goes so tight that if I put a lump of coal in your eye, I'll bet that in two minutes I'll get a diamond. That is, if a vacuum isn't created in the middle of your face. Face it, you need to get glasses. Before the wind changes."

"Oh. Alright, ma'am. I never really gave it much thought, that's all."He really hadn't. Even when the twins had quizzed him earlier, he'd never really accepted that there were people around who could actually see better than him simply because of genetics. It was like Phys. Ed., but with eyesight.

"Quite natural, don't you worry. Now, come." They came to a slightly battered-looking store with an eye set in the window, and they went in.

A young woman with horn-rimmed glasses greeted them. "Hello there. What can we at 'Mr Blindsabat's Eye Specialists' do for you?"

"Good afternoon. I'd like to have my nephew's eyes checked, please."

"No problem. Hey, you!" The woman tapped Fiddleford on the shoulder. "Answer this question for me, please. Tell me the difference between these two walls." She procured from thin air two identical pictures of the side of a building. Identical in every respect, except the first one was splattered barnacles- as the houses and shops near the sea often were.

"Well that one's covered in barnacles, ma'am, whereas that one's clean."

"Quite right. Here, have a lump of tobacco for being a good boy." A disgusting object was popped into Fiddleford's mouth. It tasted like cigarettes and toughness. "Okay, we've given him an assessment, and his eyes appear to be fine. That'll be ten dollars, please."

"What?! That's it?" Aunt Clara looked furious. "Do you really think all this boy will have to do in life is spot barnacles on the promenade? What about his studies?"

"Oh. You mean..." the woman looked genuinely puzzled. "Is he one of those _intellectual types,_ then?"

"Yes," Fiddleford's aunt answered confidently. "My nephew is going to be a world famous scientist one day." _This is news to me,_ Fiddleford thought to himself ruefully. Well, if it meant he could see better...

"Well, you shoulda just _said._ Here we have our intelligence-ometer range. ENORMOUS glasses equals BIGGER smarts in the working world!" She showed them a row of glasses, which steadily increased in size as they progressed along the long display case. The pair on the end cost two hundred dollars, and needed two sturdy men to carry them in front of your eyes for you. "I'd recommend the 'Medical Profession Xzec' set, radius thirty inches."

"Before we do anything, I'd like a professional to give him a _proper_ assessment." The woman sighed grumpily.

"Fine. We'll take him into the back room."

* * *

Half an hour later, Fiddleford followed his Aunt Clara out of Mr Blindsabat's, wearing his new pair of glasses. The sun was going down, but at least the rain had stopped.

"Do you like them?" asked Aunt Clara hesitantly. "There were a lot of pairs in there that were bigger and more 'intellectual'."

"I definitely like these ones," he assured his aunt, looking around. "For one thing, I don't need someone to carry them for me. And I can see so _far_ now! It'll be easier to read the blackboard now, for sure."

"The nerve of that woman, though. Giving a piece of chewing tobacco to a _child!"_ Fiddleford shrugged.

"She didn't mean any harm, Aunt Clara. And it actually tastes okay now. I wonder how far I can spit it..."

"Fiddleford, give that to me this instant."

"I'm kidding."

* * *

 **And that's it! Next one will be up in a few days. Until next time, I am needed elsewhere... *walks backwards, Soos-style***


	5. Chapter 5 - The Attic Affair

**And now, as promised, Chapter 5! I honestly can't believe I've made it this far. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favourited or Story Alerted the fic thus far. To the person who pointed out that Oreos are "cookies" and not "biscuits", I've fixed that now. Turns out American biscuits are basically scones, so pretty big mistake...**

 **Anyway, thank you!**

* * *

 _December 17th, 1964_

 _Dear Ma,_

 _Aunt Clara's been complaining about me sending so many letters to you and Pa, because we can't really afford all the stamps, so this is the last letter before New Year. Don't worry, I'll make this one super long to make up the difference!_

 _My birthday was good! It wasn't the same without the Hog Symphony, but everyone sang "Happy Birthday" the normal way, and I got a cake! It was vanilla, and the icing was green, my favorite color. (Don't tell, but I still like birthdays at home better.)_

 _School ended for winter break last week, by the way. I'll be glad to be away from Mr Junckleburg for a while, he really doesn't like me very much. Stan and Ford say I can still work on their boat over winter vacation, even though they're going family visiting. You remember I told you about the Stan o' War? They found it last summer, in a really scary cave, and carried it down to the beach all by themselves. It's really broken, but we're fixing it. And when it is ready, they're going to sail around the world! I may or may not be home by then, but fixing things is still fun. I managed to make Aunt Clara's radio work the other day, and I think she was happy._

 _Her attic is so amazing! There isn't much light, but Ford let me borrow his spare flashlight and she has about a dozen massive boxes with weird things inside, all covered in dust. She must be really good at organizing things because they're arranged in a hexagon, which is really hard to do. The other day I found this big box with lots of pictures inside, of rallies Aunt Clara took part in when she lived in New York City. Towards the bottom were ones of when she was younger. There were none of you for some reason, but they're probably at Grandpa o' Neill's._

 _Hope all's well on the farm and none of the hogs are sick. Please write back soon?_

 _All the best,_

 _Your son Fiddleford xx_

* * *

Fiddleford stood on his tiptoes, and managed to push the letter into the public mailbox. He'd dropped it several times in the slush, since it was getting nippy enough to require mittens, but it was on its way to Hazard like the other seven he'd sent since he'd arrived exactly two months ago.

He'd been so excited when it had first started snowing three days ago, at around two am. Aunt Clara had forbidden him from playing in it in the dead of night - "The neighbours will think we're beatniks with no concept of an acceptable timeframe!" - but Fiddleford had lain awake until morning, harbouring wild new ambitions of building snowmen, having snowball fights with the neighbourhood kids, and even making snow angels in the streets! Basically, anything that had to do with snow, he would do the next day. But when he finally got up, sluggish with barely a wink of sleep, only the thinnest of snow cover lay on the ground, and the early morning work commute put paid to that in seconds. What was left was stained in dirty browns and yellows and horrible greys, and had been shoved into the sides of buildings and into drains by a city that was far too busy for snow. Not even enough clean stuff for one lousy snow-cone.

He'd meant it about working on the boat while the Pines were away, but at that moment he had bigger fish to fry. He was going to give him and Aunt Clara the perfect Christmas. The main problem as he saw it was that Aunt Clara refused to have a tree.

"Absolutely not," she'd said, when Fiddleford had finally asked her outright. "They're a waste of space, they're too expensive, and they shed needles everywhere when they die. You'd expect me to spend hours sweeping them out of my nice rug and picking glitter from between the floorboards. So, no."

So Fiddleford now had four days to finish making a cheap, non-shedding Christmas tree for them. He had considered trying to invent a sort of suction device to collect the pine needles afterwards, but it occurred to him that it would probably be cheaper for Aunt Clara to just fork out for a proper vacuum cleaner, and that wasn't happening anytime soon. So it seemed that the only option available to him was to make a Christmas tree entirely out of silverware. He'd been working on it in the attic in the evenings. Thank heavens that Dick Ingleswaite's Saucepan Emporium had the granddaddy of all clearance sales on, with a set of twenty forks going for a dollar and fifteen cents.

Fiddleford had started with two cardboard tubes as the spine, and then began the laborious task of attaching wooden spoons onto them. He'd done this by punching holes in the tubes, and then using glue to hold the spoons in place. He'd then began putting tablespoons on to the wooden ones, branching them out using duct tape, and then adding forks to _them,_ to put ornaments on. The final result was... strange, but he was sure that after he spray-painted it green and added some tinsel it'd look just fine.

Next, sprigs of holly. Fiddleford hadn't been able to find any holly bushes, so he settled on gluing dried cranberries from the store to bits of green paper. It was nearly the same. Sort of. He'd only really seen holly on Christmas cards, so as far as he was concerned it would do. It wasn't like they were going to _eat_ them.

The good thing about living in the Lead Paint district, Fiddleford mused on his way back to Aunt Clara's, was that there was always something that someone didn't want lying around. If somebody wanted a sofa, and wasn't too bothered about the finer points such as wine stains all over it, it was almost a certainty that there was a sofa somewhere that they just wanted to get rid of. Something that wasn't wanted.

Speaking of which... How long had it been since he'd gone to visit the _Stan o' War?_ Not since Stan and Ford had left for their Nana and Grandpa's, that was for sure. He did have a duty to at least make sure it was still there, and that it hadn't been invaded by Crampelter and his cronies.

* * *

"What do you want for Christmas, Fiddleford?" asked Aunt Clara directly, as they tucked into their dinner. "Within reason, I mean. You're not getting a train set, no matter how much you believe in fairies."

Fiddeford shrugged. "Fair enough, Aunt Clara. I'm not so big on Santa Claus these days, anyway. To be perfectly honest with you..." He leant in further to the table, and lowered his voice to a whisper. " _I'm not even sure that he's actually real."_

His aunt smiled despite herself. "Don't slump, it'll stunt your growth." Fiddleford sat up straight, and the meal continued.

"To be honest," the boy admitted, stabbing at a bit of pasta with his fork, "I haven't really thought about it too much. I've got presents for Stanley, Stanford, and you of course... Oh! Would you like to see your present now? Only it takes a little while to decorate."

"Fiddleford Hadron McGucket," Aunt Clara warned, "if you've got me a tree after all I told you, I swear that I'll-"

"No no, it's okay! It's not a tree. Well, it is but- um. I'll show you after dinner."

"No, I'm seeing this right now," decided his aunt, getting to her feet. "Food can be reheated, but my excitement can not."

They made their way up the rickety staircase. As they started on the second set of stairs, Aunt Clara suddenly stopped. "Fiddleford," she said uncertainly. "Where exactly are you keeping this tree? In your room?"

"Up in the attic," Fiddleford answered cheerfully. "Hope you don't mind, but you never go up there, and there's plenty of space. Except for those old things, and those were covered with... with..." He gulped. His aunt's face had darkened. "...Ma'am, are you alright? You've gone kinda..."

" _What did you move?!"_ Clara barked sharply, suddenly grabbing Fiddleford's left shoulder and shaking him. He felt his shoulder blade come into sharp contact with the banister behind him, and he hissed in pain. " _Answer me, boy! What have you moved among my things? ANSWER!"_

"I didn't!" Fiddleford gasped. "I wouldn't! Please, I didn't know, you never told me not to go up there! I didn't move anything!"

"You didn't... alter anything." The fierce look was leaving Aunt Clara's eyes, and for the first time she seemed to notice the frightened little boy she was holding. "You swear?"

"On my father's farm," confirmed the boy seriously. "I promise, I haven't done a thing."

Slowly and tentatively, Aunt Clara removed her hand from Fiddleford's shoulder, and breathed. "Oh," she said faintly. "That's... that's good. Good boy."

"Are you alright, Aunt Clara?" He asked tentatively. She stared down at him like he'd gone insane.

" _You're_ asking if _I'm_ alright?! I just outright threatened you! Not to mention gave you a nasty bruise from the banister. You should be furious."

"I'm not! You weren't _angry_ angry, not really. You were sort of... _scared_ angry." Aunt Clara gave him a thin smile.

"Yes, Fiddleford. That's exactly the sort of angry I was. I _was_ scared- for us. For you especially." She straightened herself hastily. "Listen. The things in the boxes, they mean an awful lot to me. But they're more than that- they have a purpose. They're wards, every one. I put them here to protect this house and whoever lives in it. They've been there since I moved here."

"Protect us from what, Aunt Clara?"

"That will come later. If you're going to live under my roof for much longer, you're going to have to know a little more about it. I should have learned that by now. But first..." She put a hand on his shoulder again, this time more gently. "...let's see about that tree of yours."

* * *

 **Wow. Sudden intrigue! What is the importance of the things in the boxes? And what else is Clara hiding? All will be revealed, in the follow-up chapter!**


	6. Chapter 6 - The Locket

**Blah, blah, secret past, etcetera. You know the drill.**

* * *

After dinner, Aunt Clara and Fiddleford sat together in the attic in silence, as snow began to fall on the roof. Fiddleford wasn't excited anymore, though. He was too busy watching his aunt, who sat anxiously fiddling with the smoke-coloured ring on her finger. He decided to break the silence.

"So, where'd you get these... wards, you called them?"

"I got them on my travels, about six or seven years ago," she replied simply. "In those days, I couldn't exactly stay in the same place. I was constantly on the move, between the states. And occasionally outside of them. This house is the first permanent accommodation I've had since I left home."

"Why were you always moving? Were you on the run or something?"

"In a manner of speaking." Aunt Clara sighed. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Fiddleford frowned. "Not really. I've never seen one. Why?"

"Well, it's central to my story, you see. Now, when I first moved to New York to study, I thought that all I ever wanted to do was study politics and economics. I was very politically active in those days; always going to marches for human rights and things like that. They make the world go round, I told myself. But within my first year, I realised that my enthusiasm was merely projected. Real love for a subject, you see, eats at your insides and makes you feel full at the same time. That was the feeling I felt when I first took an interest in spirits.

"Spirits, you see, are free to move between two main dimensions. One is ours, and the other has no real 'dimension' to speak of. It doesn't even have solids, liquids or gases. It is less a universe than a state of mind. Some spirits prefer it, others like to stay around here."

Fiddleford struggled to understand. "But... how did you find out about this place?"

"Before long, I drifted out of the group of activists I'd been interacting with, and I switched to archaeology. Which is a silly thing to study in a city only a few hundred years old, but there you go. The switch in subjects allowed me to study runes and cryptology, and I travelled all over the world with like-minded people who I admired. They were good times. I was convinced that here lay the path to finding a weak spot between my dimension and that of the departed was in the words and gestures of people long ago. And eventually, finally, just after I finished my masters degree, I found a way to raise the dead."

"Woah. That's either really good or really bad."

"It was really bad. Needless to say, I unleashed something _very_ nasty on the world. Well, on me anyway. The king of almost all the multiverse, Bill Cipher. He usually resides in a universe of pure chaos, but he wanted entry to ours. Luckily I managed to close the hole I'd made in our world, but not before he sent a being called Osiris after me."

"Osiris?" Fiddleford frowned. "That sounds kinda familiar."

"He's a spirit. He's a mythological figure in ancient Egypt, depicted as the god of the afterlife. And they weren't far off. He is so strong he's almost solid, and can change his shape at will. He is master of the passage between life and death."

"Not a good enemy to make, then?"

"Nope. He swore to lock up my soul, and force it to wander the Earth for eternity. I had to protect myself, so I searched desperately for wards for households. He followed me all over the world, and I was never completely safe. At last I found a message in a cave in Alaska, which gave the strongest protection against bad spirits. I have the copy here." She searched in one of the boxes, careful not to allow her fingers to brush the objects themselves, and deftly plucked out a piece of paper. It had a grainy photograph of a cave engraving on it, and below it a typewritten message - presumably the translation. Fiddleford took it, and studied the message closely. This is what he read:

 _A wisdom passed from fall to spring, surviving through winter._

 _An acorn fallen far from the tree, same and yet so different._

 _The proof of more than meets the eye, the tip of the iceberg._

 _A love preserved against all odds, forgotten by all but one._

"I know it doesn't rhyme. I think it did, but in English it doesn't really work. Still, you get the point. Items with personal value protect you when together; separately they can be used as weapons. Unfortunately, I don't have many personal items from my youth, so I had to... borrow some."

"So those old things in the boxes are all wards?"

"Yes. I find them in auctions, shut-down museums, places like that. A lot of them belong to famous people in history. Of course, they aren't as strong, because they have no personal connection, but I have a lot of them. Think of it as being like replacing a little rocket fuel with lots and lots of automobile fuel."

"Right." Fiddleford was trying to keep up. "So as long as we're in the house, we're save from Osiris?"

"Yes. But the connection of the items is very thin, and requires a lot of precision to work properly. That's why I was so afraid when I thought you'd moved some. That would have disturbed the connection, and left us fully open. Osiris could have taken one of us before I even realised."

"Wait a minute. If we're only protected here, what's stopping him from getting me while I'm at school, or on the beach or in town?" He suddenly felt very paranoid. Could Osiris be waiting outside the house, waiting to nab him the minute he stepped off the front porch?

"You assume that he's after you specially. Why would he be? The only one he wants is me, and he has an underworld to run in his spare time. Plus, even if you did take one of my things everywhere you went, it'd be the equivalent of fighting a dragon with a toothpick. At any rate, so long as I am here, under his radar, you are perfectly safe."

"Okay."

"I know it's a lot to take in, but try not to be too worried. Tomorrow we have a lot to do, and you need your sleep." They got to their feet.

"Aunt Clara?" Fiddleford said quickly.

"Yes?"

"Do you really not have anything from when you were little? Nothing at all?" His aunt bit her lip hesitantly.

"I do have one thing," she answered finally, looking down at him. "It's my strongest ward, which I carry whenever I'm out and about."

"Can I see it?"

"I don't see why not." Slowly she took off what Fiddleford had assumed was a plain necklace around her neck. However, now he could see it was a locket. It was still a plain thing, but it was in good condition. He took it carefully, and examined it. "Look inside." He opened the locket, and stared.

A tiny black-and-white photograph of two girls sitting on a porch. The taller one had a strong, beak-like nose, wavy dark hair, and an awkward smile. The younger girl, however, took Fiddleford's breath away. Even in the tiny grainy photo, he could see that in real life her hair would have been a beautiful rich auburn, drifting in waves like clouds around a freckled cheerful face.

"...Ma?"

"Your mother and I." Aunt Clara observed stonily. "When we were young." She gently took the locket back, and put it in her pocket. "Sleep well." She turned and began descending the stairs. Fiddleford remained a moment, looking down at the final line of the cryptic message written on the cave.

 _"A love preserved against all odds, forgotten by all but one..."_

* * *

 **And so I finally get my one problem with translated messages off my chest. Why would a person in the past times engineer a poem so it would rhyme in a language they might not even have heard of? It makes no sense.**


	7. Chapter 7 - The Contest

**Finally, thee first main action piece is coming up. I'm currently the only one in my house who doesn't feel like crud, so I shall be busy making beans on toast for all the family. Unless we have no beans, in which case just toast.**

* * *

Christmas came and went. Fiddleford's "tree" served its purpose well; although the green spray paint came off the stainless steel cutlery easily, and seemingly stained the hands of anyone who came near it. Aunt Clara said it was beautiful, but then again she had been unusually nice since the "attic incident". Fiddleford was still allowed to carry out his inventions in the roomy attic, but only as long as he promised not to move the wards. As if he had any intention of doing so. The thought of Osiris gave him a nasty feeling whenever he remembered - but it was not nearly as bad, he came to realise, as the feeling in his stomach when he'd realized there was no Christmas card from Hazard. In fact, there hadn't been a word from either of his parents since the first letter from his Ma, the week after he'd arrived.

He'd noticed as well that Aunt Clara, having seemingly realised what was going on, tried to compensate for the lack of communication. Every now and again, when he came in from checking on the ship, she'd vaguely mention that they were "asking after" him back home. Fiddleford would say that he was doing fine, and would she please pass that on, and so the charade would continue. What both of them knew, and mutually decided not to voice, was that it seemed like the McGuckets simply weren't interested.

"I just don't understan'," he confided in Stan, as they sat in the twins' room in the Pines' apartment. He'd come to check on Ford, who had come down with flu during New Year. Stan, meanwhile, was trying his very best to catch it too, so he too would have an excuse not to attend the boxing lessons enforced by his father. In the meantime, he was proving an unexpectedly sympathetic ear. Albeit a restless one. "Am I doin' something wrong, do you think? Maybe I should stop mentioning Aunt Clara... y'know there's not a single photo of her in our house in Tennessee, except family ones. It's like for them she just stopped existing in the 1950s."

"That's weird," Stan admitted quietly. "Here's an idea: tell 'em that if they don't write back next time, you're gonna stop writing completely! Then they're sure to-"

"No! I mean, I don't wanna guilt them into it..."

"But they're acting like jerks!"

"Yeah." Fiddleford felt a little drained. "Yeah, I guess they are a little."

"What did they send you here for anyway? No offence, we really like you, but it just seems weird."

"I came here for 'sea air'. Whatever the heck that's supposed to be." They sat in silence on the bottom bunk, thinking on this. Then Stan sat up slightly.

"OH! Oh! I've got a _really_ good idea!"

"What?" asked Fiddleford eagerly. "What is it?"

"What if... hear me out... what if Coach was _also_ sick?" Stan looked delighted with himself. "That's insurance, just in case I haven't gotten sick by tomorrow! 'Scuse me a moment..." He climbed up the wooden bunk bed ladder with a creaking sound. "Hey, Sixer?"

"No... wanna sleep... for eternity..."

"Sorry to wake ya, pal. Listen, is there any chance you could cough in this paper cup?"

"...I think I'm genuinely dying. Can you get someone to read the Last Rites?"

"Pfft, you're no fun." Stan carefully got back down, and flopped onto the bed. "It's just as well for _him_ ," he complained, casting his eyes skyward towards his uncooperative twin. "He's already sick. You can read comic books and drink orange juice and be bored on your own, no problem! Me, I've gotta face the _real_ world alone."

"How come I don't count?" asked Fiddleford, a bit petulantly.

"No offence Fidds, but you're not quite Ford material. Although the glasses do help. You can be Poindexter: the Sequel. Oh, and speaking of nerd stuff," he added quickly, before Fiddleford could process the sentence. "Our Ma got hold of your weird knife thing. Y'know, the thing you explained but I wasn't listening?"

"Oh. The mechanical potato peeler?" Fiddleford had decided to try making a new potato peeler with the leftover utensils from the Christmas project, while he was waiting for the Pines to return from their grandparents'. You turned a handle to rotate the blades, and they would roughly peel the potato within a few seconds. It worked for carrots as well, but not parsnips for some reason. "Can I have it back?"

"That's the thing! Bruce Aronstein's mom was over for dinner last night, and now _she_ wants one. _All_ Ma's friends are after them, and they can't find 'em in the stores."

"Just tell them they were on special at the Saucepan Emporium. It shut down over Christmas, so they'll never know. Anyway, I've run out of cheese graters."

"Why did they give you so much stuff, anyway?" Stan demanded. "Just because it's a clearance sale, they go, 'Here, have forty free teasets! Oh look, a child! Give him literally all the sharp objects we have!'."

"They're just bad businessmen, I guess. Hence why they shut down after two months."

Fiddleford had thought long and hard about telling the Pines twins about what he'd learned over Christmas. To him, there seemed no reason that they shouldn't know about Osiris. Then again, there was no real reason that they _should,_ either. And often it was the case that you shouldn't ever throw facts around when you don't necessarily have to. After all, by next summer Fiddleford would be back in Tennessee, helping out on the hog farm, and he was the Pines' only real connection to Aunt Clara. And what chance did they even have of running across an actual ghost, anyway?

* * *

On the fifth of February, Fiddleford was sitting in homeroom, looking out the window. Morris the Mining Mole was as disturbing as ever, right outside. Although... had he always been facing towards the building? He had a clear memory of walking past the thing's leering grin on his way into school on his first day, he was convinced. Then again, it was hard to see where the face actually was, what with the graffiti.

"ALRIGHT, CLASS!" barked Mr Junckleburg. "CALM DOWN AND LISTEN!" Fiddleford was unsure why the teacher bothered shouting, since he demanded a completely silent classroom all the time. "The powers that be have come up with the novel idea that one or two among you, despite the mounting evidence, may possess even the smallest bit of genuine _talent._ So they've decided to pit you against each other in a thing called a Talent Show- and I use the term as lightly as possible. It'll take place in a week's time. If you fancy your chances, then you can sign up on the wall opposite the cafeteria, where you must give your name and your 'gift'. And as Marco Small in the Fifth Grade will tell you, competitive belching is _not_ a gift in any sense of the word and will not be regarded as such by the judge. Who, by the way, is me. Any questions?"

Fiddleford had about a hundred. Did knowing how to play banjo count as a talent? Even if it did, would people still be impressed? Did he have time to grow a beard? And above all, who in tarnation thought that _this man_ would be good at judging children?

His eyes wandered to the centre of the classroom. The popular girls, Georgia Wells and her friends, were whispering excitedly among themselves. He clearly had competition, and lots of it. He'd never be able to win. But maybe just doing it would be enough?

When he exited the classroom ten minutes, he was determined to sign up. However, fate forced him to wait a further forty seconds.

"Hey, McSuckit," grinned Crampelter, as he caught Fiddleford in a chokehold. "You almost looked like you were gonna sign up for the Talent Show there. Well, I can't see any problem with that. It's not like you're gonna affect things in the long run."

"What's that supposed t' mean?"

"I'm personally making sure that _my girlfriend_ is going to win." The bully said, puffing out his chest like he thought he deserved a medal. Belatedly, Fiddleford realised that Crampelter hadn't been waiting for him, but for...

"Hey." Georgia Wells. Of _course_ she'd be the first person in the Fourth Grade to get a legitimate boyfriend to boast about. And in the year above, no less. She was quite pretty, after all. "Too right I'm gonna win."

"What's your act again, babe?"

"It's a secret, remember?"

"Alright. Noses?" They rubbed noses, giggling slightly. Fiddleford, meanwhile, was viewing this from his position near the boy's armpit, mid-noogie. Oh god, the guy had actually put on cologne... This was wrong on so many levels. They were _ten._ "See you around, Fiddlesticks. No, I like _you_ more..." Fiddleford attempted to iron out the crick in his neck, watching them go.

"Pretty nauseating, huh?" Stan and Ford appeared out of nowhere, both looking as unimpressed as he did. Stan looked especially grumpy.

"He's been doing that for close on a week," he informed Fiddleford. "Even his sidekicks have shoved off, because they felt sick. Blech. Girls. Anyway, Talent Show! Yay or nay?"

"I was thinkin' yay," Fiddleford admitted. "But if I win now, Crampelter'll crush my brain. I kinda need it for other things, so definitely nay. What about you guys?"

"Not in a million billion years," returned Ford without hesitation. "I'm not at all good with public speaking. I'd make a fool out of myself. But that message hasn't got through to Goofy here."

"You need to step outside your comfort zone, Poindexter!" insisted Stan enthusiastically. They'd clearly had this conversation many times. "Otherwise how will people know how smart and awesome you are if you can't show it?"

"They could read my many papers."

"Psh. Like anyone's gonna do that. I, meanwhile, will be strutting my stuff as a comedian, starting now!"

"Oh yeah, Pop's gonna _love_ that as a career choice." Stan's smile failed for a moment.

"Sure he will! And with my brand new joke book, I can't go wrong!" He pulled a small book out from his jacket. _HA HA HA JOKES WHICH ARE FUNNY,_ it read on the cover. _Perfect for small, talentless kids to get condescending laughter from their parents' friends!_ "I never read the small print. Waste of time which I could be using consulting my comedic muse!" There was much eyebrowing between Ford and Fiddleford, as Stan folded the book back into his pocket. "Anyway, see ya later!"

Fiddleford nodded, then looked at the form. It was filling up fast. Maybe Stan was right - he should try and go outside his own comfort zone every once in a while. What better place to start than here and now?

He joined the small queue, and barely had time to hesitate for a second before he signed his name on the sheet.

* * *

 **Ooh, a talent show! Bear in mind this is elementary school, so there will be little actual talent going on. Still, who has faith in Stan's comedic muse? Then again, we know this fandom's stance on "muses" in general...**


	8. Chapter 8 - Stan's First Gig

**The set up for lots and lots of action now! Brace yourself!**

* * *

A week later, Fiddleford was feverishly preparing to go to the Talent Show.

He'd practiced almost non-stop for the last few days, and he could've sworn his fingers were being worn thin. Luckily he'd got no blisters, but after four days of listening to the same complex ditty on the banjo, his instrument had been temporarily banned from the _Stan o' War._ And, by definition, him also.

Speaking of which, Ford was also feeling a bit left out of things, as Stanley was busy working on his routine. Thanks to all his hard work, the content had made the gap between "terrible" and "barely competent".

Earlier that day, he'd performed to Ford and Fiddleford in Fort Stan, a makeshift tent constructed in the twins' shared bedroom in the apartment. They'd barely managed to drag Fiddleford away from his practice, and even now he was tapping patterns on his arm obsessively.

"I say, I say, I say! What do you get if you swallow a box of Christmas generations?"

"I don't know Stan, please tell us."

" _Tinsellitis!_ " The boy improvised a victory dance. "Geddit? Geddit? _Tinsel-_ itis!" His friends studiously didn't react. "Okay, okay. Did Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer go to school?"

Stanford thought for a moment.

"...No, he's a reindeer. Reindeer don't go to school."

"That's right, that's why he was 'elf'-taught!"

"Stanley, Christmas was only two months ago," pointed out Fiddleford. "Who in their right mind would anyone want to hear jokes about it?"

"Because it's the _past,_ silly! Almost _all_ jokes are about the past; there's hardly any about the future. I'm being professional. And also, I love Christmas. I'm just doing what I know, like the book says."

"But Lee, we don't celebrate Christmas. Our family's Jewish." Stanley huffed.

"Look, I thought we agreed that you could only criticize if _you_ got your act together, and got an act together!"

"I'm not doing this. I'm serious." Ford crossed his arms. "Why would I ever need to talk to fifty or more people at once? Conversations never happen like that. I could go the rest of my life without having to do it. In fact, I want to."

"Oh, so you admit you're scared?" Stan grinned, as his brother's face closed up.

"No, I'm not at all afraid of public speaking. End of story."

"Okay, Sixer. If you're not scared at all, you won't mind telling the WHOLE CITY how you feel!" Stan jumped up, grabbing Ford by the wrist, dragging him to the window. "Hey, everybody!" he yelled loudly, out of the open window facing onto the street below. "People of Glass Shard Beach! My brother Ford has something important to say! He's gonna say it REAL loud, 'cause he's not _at all_ afraid of speaking to the public - are ya, Poindexter?"

"Let go of me! I don't _have_ anything to say!" Fiddleford looked on in bemusement, as the twins wrestled over who was closest to the window. He'd been friends with the Pines for almost four months now, but most of the time he still couldn't figure out whether they were best friends, or attempting to kill each other. A hug could just as easily be a chokehold in the world of Stanley and Stanford Pines.

They fought and laughed until the deaf cashier in the pawn shop banged on the ceiling to make them shut up.

* * *

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" asked Clara, as she helped Fiddleford with his jacket in the hall. "I've given you your bus money, right?"

"Three times," he laughed, doing up the buttons of the coat. "I'll be okay, really."

"I know. I do feel bad about not coming. You do understand... why I can't go along with you? It's such a long time to be out of the house, and I can't rely on..."

"It's alright, Aunt Clara, I get it. I'm nervous enough about this whole thing; the last thing I need is the God of the Underworld appearing during my set." His aunt's thin face quirked into a smile, and for a moment they looked alike.

"Thank you for being so mature about this. Be back by seven, okay? Get a lift home if you can. And good luck!" She followed him to the end of their street, and waved until he turned a corner.

By the time he arrived at the school, the sun was setting. He was in good time, however, and he relaxed slightly.

"Let's do this." His hand tightened on the strap keeping his banjo on his back (was it weird that in his head he called it Diane?) and entered the building. He skirted around Morris awkwardly. It was as if he moved each time he saw him...

The thought of the creepy school mascot was dismissed from his mind, when he caught sight of the two Stans, standing by the billboard near the entrance.

"Hey Fidds, what kept ya? You're about a gazillion acts before us. Just look!" The order of the acts, made up by Mr Junckleburg, was on the board. Fiddleford looked closer. His name, accompanied by the unassuming word "banjo", was almost at the top of the list. He still had twenty minutes, and the parents hadn't finished filing into the hall yet.

"Hey Ford, what're you doing here? I thought you weren't taking part." The bespectacled twin shrugged.

"Moral support. I even learned a few cheerleading... things." He took out a piece of paper, and cleared his throat. "Ahem! Stanley and Fidds' team is red, red hot. And all the other teams can do doodly-squat!" There was an awkward pause. "You see, because it... well... rhymes."

"Well," said Fiddleford brightly. "I for one feel morally supported."

"Me too!" Stan added genuinely. Ford's face split into a grin, proud to have contributed.

"Anyway, I should go tune up. See you fellas later!" Fiddleford poked his way through the crowd, with the help of his unusually sharp elbows, and went into an unlocked classroom.

He looked around; it seemed to him as if he was alone. Sitting down, he began to pluck the strings one by one, and adjust them by ear. He frowned. That one had not sounded like Diane. In fact... it didn't really sound like a banjo. He looked around again.

Turned out that on his first brisk go-over of the classroom, he hadn't noticed the crying girl sat in the corner. It was Georgia Wells. He put down his banjo, not quite sure what to do.

Suddenly, Georgia looked up and smiled a watery smile.

"Your p-playing is pr-retty."

"Uh... thank you very much. But that was just my tunin' up. It's not really anything."

She laughed hollowly. "Yeah. That makes me feel so much better about my chances."

"Sorry. Is there - that is - can I do anything? To help, I mean. You're crying." _Like she hasn't noticed, you idiot._

"Do you have a way to make my talent seem less dumb?" She rubbed her eyes. "I feel awful for lying to people, saying that I think I'm definitely gonna win when I'm not. Terence is being so sweet-" Fiddleford coughed involuntarily. She frowned, and continued. "He wants me to win, which is why he threatens people. But I can't! I mean, your talent is _cool,_ and fun. But Irish dancing? Not so much."

"Irish dancin', ya say?"

"Told you it was dumb," said Georgia bitterly. "I enjoy it, but I don't know what I was thinking signing up for _this._ I'm not even that great at it! And all my friends will think I'm really weird. Even my dad thinks it's a little useless."

"Oh." There was a silence. Fiddleford tried to think of a good thing to say. "If it means anything, a lot of people think the banjo is a waste of time too."

"Really?" She looked genuinely confused. "That's nuts."

"Yeah. And it was hard to learn, y'know. I mean my Pa taught me, so it was still kinda fun, but it was still hard. I had blisters all over my fingers when I first started, when I was around five. It even set my writin' back, 'cause I couldn't hold a pen properly. But after all that, I feel like I have to hide it. Because knowing how to play the banjo is 'weird'. And I guess I thought that if I won, or came even close, maybe I'd be able to feel proud of being able to do it. Maybe even get a little recognition for it." Georgia was staring at him. He sighed. "Sorry. You're upset; I shouldn't have told you all of that."

"No, you're right!" She was nodding enthusiastically. "That's exactly what winning would do for _me_!"

"Then... what'd ya say we both go for it?"

"It's a deal!" They smiled at each other, in a brief moment of understanding. However, it didn't last.

The door crashed open, and Crampelter entered, all smiles, holding a can of soda.

"Hey, Georgie! So do ya want somethin' ta eat or-" He stopped, noticing Fiddleford for the first time. He looked from him to Georgia's red-rimmed eyes, then back to Fiddleford, who gulped. "Hey, nerd! You'd better not have been messin' with my girlfriend."

"He's not!" cried Georgia. "Fiddleford was just-"

"Oh, so it's 'Fiddleford' now, is it? Lovely, chummy Fiddleford. Real nice."

"That's his _name,_ Terry. You leave him alone." She began to tear up again. "He d-deserves to win as much as me!"

"Oh, _now_ I see what's goin' on here!" Crampelter pointed an accusing finger at Fiddleford. "You were trying to demoralise my Georgie before she goes on, so you can win! That's real smart, wise guy. But it's not gonna work with me, 'cause I'm not an idiot. I know exactly how to deal with you!" He picked the small boy up by the scruff of the neck, banjo and all, and dragged him over to the cupboard used to hold advanced textbooks. Without pausing, Crampelter threw Fiddleford into the cramped space, slamming the door after him. A second later, there was a sharp "shan-k", as the key turned in the lock.

"Terry, what are you doing?"

"Now you're _sure_ to win this competition." Fiddleford fought down his panic, and looked through the empty keyhole. Crampelter was pocketing the key to the cupboard.

"But it's not a competition. It's a _show._ There's a huge difference."

"Listen princess." There was a cold edge in his voice now, that sent shivers up Fiddleford's spine. "I built your reputation in this school, and I can break it in an instant. Not just here, either! I'll spread rumours about you in middle school, and then high school after that, and I'll make sure that no one will ever, ever like you again." Fiddleford felt his stomach sink. Georgia looked towards the door, barely holding herself together.

"You... you promise you'll let him out again? After the show?" _Oh no._

"Promise," said Crampelter. "There's a vent in that place anyway. Right, now that's taken care of, let's shake off the loser feel in this room. Orange soda?" The door of the classroom opened, then closed quietly behind the pair. Fiddleford was left alone, and more than a little annoyed.

* * *

"Where is he?" worried Stanford, looking around. He and his brother were in the line outside the auditorium, waiting for their turn. "Fiddleford was meant to be on seventeen acts ago. At this rate, he won't be fit in at all!" He looked to his left. "You're being awful quiet, Stanley. Are you alright?"

"Uuuurrgh..." Stan groaned, holding onto his stomach. "Don't feel... good..."

"Oh, for crying out loud!" snapped his twin. " _Seventeen_ French fancies do this to people, Stanley! When will you learn?"

"When Satan hires me to shovel his driveway," he replied stubbornly. "They were so tasty. I would have kept going if _you_ hadn't stopped me."

"You would have killed yourself." Suddenly, they heard Mr Junckleburg's voice.

"And now," they heard him say, "a Fourth Grader doing Irish dancing. Whatever the heck that is, it's probably rubbish. Anyway, Georgia Wells!" A girl with curly black hair standing in front of them bit her lip, and stepped forward towards the stage. She seemed upset for some reason.

"Oh no no no no no..." Ford fretted. "You're on next! You can't go on like this!"

"You're right." Stan looked at him.

"...No. Absolutely not. I refuse!"

"What else can we do? Look, take this piece of paper-" Stan's speech was drowned out by a massive cheer for the dancing girl. "That's got all my quality jokes on it. You'll be _fine,_ they love me!"

"But I'm not _you,_ Stanley," Ford pointed out desperately. "I've never spoken to more than four people as a collective unit in my life! Plus, they'll notice my fingers!"

"They won't if you put these gloves on," Stan pointed out, tugging off his own. "Wear my coat, so Mom won't notice you've got your own clothes on. And I'll have your glasses - thanks. Now the time is right. Go, avenge me, brother! AVENGE ME!"

"Look, I don't want-"

"And next," said Mr Junckleburg, "one of the funniest kids I've ever taught, not for his jokes, but simply by being himself." _Thank... you?_ Ford thought. "Stanley Filbrick Pines, the 'stand-up comic'." Ford sighed, and walked through the double doors into the crammed auditorium, and up the steps to the microphone. Two hundred parents' eyes blinked expectantly at him. That is, two hundred _pairs_ of eyes, as opposed to two hundred individual ones. Unless there were people who had just one eye, or none at all...?

Ford forced himself to focus, and glanced at the scrap of paper stuffed up his sleeve. Stanley's handwriting sure was terrible.

"Uh, evening everyone. So, uh, I often wonder. How do you tell if there is a whale in your closet?" Stanford waiting one, two seconds, before bursting out, "When you can't get the door shut!"

There was a murmur of general dissent. Some kid in the front row threw an empty soda can at the stage.

"That was awful!"

"My god, does his sense of humour work?"

"I'm not impressed," said Filbrick Pines, in the third row. His wife bit her lip worriedly.

It was official. Stanford Pines was dying on his arse for the first time in his life.

* * *

Fiddleford tapped a Morse code message uselessly against the door of the cupboard. Luckily the cramped place had a light switch, otherwise he wouldn't be nearly as calm as he was. Say what you like about Crampelter, his menacing spots had true class. It was better than the inside of a locker by a long shot.

He gave up on the idea of being rescued. Looking at his watch, he had already missed his spot by twenty minutes. The only thing he could do was wait for Crampelter to take his sweet time coming to get him out of this mess. Or starve over the weekend, whichever came first.

In the meantime, what to do? He reached behind him, and retrieved a book on Math. Well, what better time to finally find out about this "algebra" Stan and Ford were always moaning about...

Reluctantly at first, and then more quickly, he began to read.

It was to be a long, long evening.

* * *

Stanford stepped off the stage numbly after three minutes, jeering and abuse following him through the door. Everyone eyed him uneasily, probably assuming he'd instantly start planning a murder after his trauma. He made it halfway down the corridor before he was hit by a moving object.

"I'm so sorry!" wailed Stanley, hugging his brother tightly. "I really thought it was good. And I _did_ feel a little sick from the fancies, but I totally overplayed it so you'd be able to overcome your fear of public speaking and show everyone that you're awesome but in the end I just made it _worse_!"

"Stan..."

"I really thought that Christmas stuff would save it," he muttered miserably into Ford's shoulder. "That was horrible to watch."

"Are you kidding?" Ford brushed Stan off, and stood up straight. "That was amazing. I feel great!"

"Uh... say what now?"

"All that time, I was worried about it going _less than_ well," he explained to his twin, ignoring the stares. "But that experience was so horrifically and profoundly bad, the concept of goodness never entered into it! The only way my later experiences can go is up! Thank you so much!" Stan was eying his brother with a mixture of hope and utter incredulity.

"You're sure you're not mad?"

"Absolutely!"

"In that case, there's definitely something wrong with you."

Ford laughed, hooking an arm around his brother in utter euphoria. "There's something wrong with _both_ of us!"

"Yeah," said Stan wistfully, smiling to see his brother so happy. Then it faded. "Both of us... Hey. Where the heck is Fidds, anyway?"

* * *

 **UXGROSK WKH UHG QRVHG UHLQGHHU!**


	9. Chapter 9 - The Spook

**Now we get round to the REAL action! Night-time heists, plus a revenge-seeking spectre to boot! Enjoy!**

* * *

At exactly eleven o'clock that night, the key in the door to a cupboard in classroom A8 turned slowly in the lock.

Fiddleford jerked awake, confused at the sudden noise after so many hours of silence. He gradually became aware of the dust in the air, and the low ceiling above his head, and the pile of textbooks he'd been leaning on when he'd nodded off. The algebra guide, now almost fully read, was still in his hand. It was if the world was feeling a tad sorry for him, reading alone in some enclosed space, and had simply stopped time for a little while.

But what had that noise been? Could it have been...? Almost not daring to try, Fiddleford reached out for the door handle. The door swung open without a problem.

He stepped outside on unpracticed legs, and looked around curiously. Who was his saviour? Crampelter, presumably. He was almost thankful that the burly boy hadn't hung around after letting him go. What would he have done, anyway? Gone on his knees and outright _thanked_ him?

The caretaker was long gone, the lights out. Lucky Aunt Clara had provided him with a torch for the way home. He took it out now, turning it on to navigate his way out of the classroom and into the hallway.

Fiddleford may have been small, and not exactly strong either, but he was not that easily scared. Even so, he jumped at even the smallest skitter on polished linoleum, and skirted shadows and lockers, turning the light this way and that. He was officially spooked.

It felt like it took an eternity to reach the double doors leading out of the school, which luckily had no lock even at night. The full moon shone through the glass panes, oddly warm and inviting after twenty metres of silvery shadows. But now they were right in front of him, glinting invitingly. Just one more metre to freedom. The locked gates wouldn't be a problem. He'd tunnel underneath them, if that meant he wouldn't have to go anywhere near this place till Monday.

Shakily, he reached out for the door handle...

* * *

At exactly eleven o'clock that night, Stanley Pines poked his sleeping twin brother in the eye.

"OW! What the heck?"

" _F_ _ord!_ " hissed Stan urgently. "Be quiet, or Mom and Dad will wake up. It's really important. Fidds is missing!"

"Wh...uh?" Ford reached for his glasses, and put them on. His brother's uncharacteristically anxious face swam into focus. "Lee, he's probably at his auntie's house. He can't be over all the time."

"He's not," Stanley confirmed. "I snuck over there just now. He was meant to be back by seven. His Aunt Clara's having a heart attack. She's just about ready to call the cops. Ford, we have to do _something_!" The urgency of the situation finally reached Ford, and he sat up in bed.

"This is serious," he admitted, reaching to the sweater on the end of his bunk. "He's probably back at the school. He went missing during the show, remember?"

"Crampelter!" added his brother contemptuously, pulling his own sweater over his head. "When I get my hands on that big fat-"

"Yeah, yeah, me too. But first we have to check Fiddleford's at the school. He might be genuinely missing, in which case we can't do anything. But if we can..." Ford's face emerged from the neck of the sweater, and he adjusted his glasses seriously. "We have to. He's our friend."

"So what're we waiting for! Let's go." Stanley carefully climbed down from the bunk, and pulled on his shoes. "To the fire escape!"

"Woah, hang on. That's for emergencies." Ford's twin rolled his eyes. It wasn't often he got to do the "god you're so stupid sometimes" look, but he pulled it off surprisingly well.

"This _is_ an emergency, Poindexter. Duh. Right, follow me!"

* * *

Mere millimetres from his hand, the door suddenly shook. Not just gently from the wind, mind you. This was a proper, chain-clanking, hinge-creaking, "OH MY GOD WE'RE GONNA DIE" shake. Fiddleford yelped, stepping back. He felt for the banjo slung over his back, trying to calm down.

"Just the wind..." he quietly reassured himself. "It's just the wind makin' the..."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," said a voice in his ear.

Fiddleford SCREAMED, and turned around, his back pressed against the doors. "Show yourself!" he yelled, unfortunately not sounding braver than he felt. "Come out, coward! You don't scare me!"

"You'd rather I showed myself? I don't blame you. Mind you, I'm not exactly Miss New Jersey." As Fiddleford tried to get his breathing under control, something formed before him. It was a young man, with a round smiling face, who dressed like just about every keen teacher at that time; tweed suit, bow tie... He even had the complimentary mortar board on his head. In fact, he was also wearing a cloak. He was dressed like a high school graduate. He was almost completely see-through, and had a yellow tinge.

"You sure dress up nice for a ghost," said Fiddleford automatically. The man's slightly unhinged smile grew wider.

"Why, thank you, young man! Spirits like me are very sensitive about their dress sense. Unfortunately, whatever clothes you die in, you're stuck with. Pretty unfortunate. Especially for those poor souls who slip in the shower." He looked sympathetic for a moment. "But that's not really important. You seem unusually polite for a child, but I'm afraid I do have to take your soul."

"Oh." Fiddleford felt unusually calm for someone who was about to have their soul taken. "Before you do that, though, I have a few questions." The ghostly man's aura turned a tranquil blue with pleasure.

"Excellent! Oh, it's been years since I've encountered curiosity! Please, fire away."

"Can spirits go inside things? I mean, solid things, on Earth. It's just, someone I know is on the bad side of someone."

"Well, it rather depends on the strength of the spirit." The graduate paced back and forth. "Going inside actual people is very hard, only the big bosses can do it. Most lost souls, desperate for something to inhabit, spend a good hundred years entering relatively small inanimate objects, and moving them with some difficulty, in the hope of startling a housecat and making it onto home video. Amusing, but not the greatest way to spend eternity. And of course, once you're in it's harder to get out." He suddenly looked bitter. "I had much bigger plans, but in the end that came to nothing. Allow me to tell you of my tale of woe."

"Or you could just-"

"My story begins," the teacher began grandly, "in the summer of 1926. I was homeschooled by my rich family, but my ultimate desire, my dream, was to be a schoolteacher, the best schoolteacher that ever there was. However, it wasn't meant to be. For on the very day of my graduation from teaching college, in this very city, I was knocked down by some idiot driving a Ford Model T. Cruelly cut off in my prime, my dreams shattered." Fiddleford made a vague noise of sympathy. His hand fumbled for the handle behind him.

"Of course, I was desperately unhappy about the whole thing. Now I would never fulfil my ambition of filling little children's heads with imagination and knowledge! For six years I wandered the Earth, despairing of my afterlife. But then, one day, while I was hanging around the government office of Glass Shard Beach, I saw the plans for a school mascot. A friendly mole, asking children only to look inside for their true potential. Put another way, to begin 'Mining For Success!'"

"Morris the Mining Mole," Fiddleford realised. "I knew that thing was creepy!"

"That wouldn't be the word _I'd_ have used, but - well. I suppose I was a little bit 'creepy'. But I had good intentions! I decided that I would be the light in that creature's eyes, the thing that implored children going into school to look inside themselves for what they needed in life." The man's eyes became misty. "I entered that damned vessel without a second thought. William Marsh-Entlefield died at last, and Morris was born. But when I was unveiled... those nasty rotten kids, they _laughed_ at me!" He dissolved into sobs, his aura now tinged a horrible green.

Fiddleford didn't know quite what to do. He couldn't exactly pat the guy on the back. "Um. There... there."

"It only took a little longer for me to realise the truth," the ghost hissed, looking directly at him. "Children aren't innocent at all. They are lazy, unconscientious, and wicked. They are worse than the adults who ridiculed me in my living years. But the adults didn't walk past and snigger at me every day, or spit on my feet, or scrawl obscene words on my face in permanent marker when I couldn't move, or - or - or..."

"That's horrible."

"Too darn right it was! The years weren't exactly kind to me either. It's been so many full moons since I created my own prison, but at last I am a million times stronger, and free. Free to exact my revenge on every lousy ungrateful child I can!" The spirit turned a blazing, angry red, his youthful face twisted and ugly, and pointed a finger at Fiddleford. "Starting with you!"

"What're ya goin' to do with me?" he asked in a shaking voice.

"I'll tell you. I'm going to rip your soul right out of your body. Then I'll dump you straight into Morris. Since it's children like you who made my death a living hell for all these years, it's only fitting that at least one of you should know that pain."

Fiddleford gulped as he edged away from the doors, then broke into a desperate run, the enraged spirit hot on his heels.

* * *

"Fiddleford!" Stanford called, as they walked through the deserted schoolyard with their torches. "Fiddleford, where are you?"

"C'mon, Fidds!" Stan joined in, pointing his light towards the corners of the yard. "Give us some help here, pal!" They were still wearing striped pyjama trousers from bed, since they'd got up in such a hurry. They shivered in the night-time cold.

"Maybe he just isn't here..." Ford turned off his torch briefly, looking pained. "This probably _is_ best left to the cops. Lee..."

"Not today! We haven't checked inside yet. We're in this together, remember?" His twin ran to the doors, with a look of determination. Ford sighed, and followed. Without Stan, he would have thrown in the towel long before.

"Hey, Sixer! Look at this!" As he approached the doors, he noticed what Stan had. Morris the Mining Mole had fallen on his side, obstructing the entrance. "Dumb thing," Stanley muttered. "About time it toppled over, anyway." Ford couldn't find it in himself to disagree. He helped his brother roll the statue down the steps out of their way, and they faced the silent doors.

"High six?"

"...High six." They entered together, fingers barely touching.

The place was as creepy as they had expected. Flyers from the show were scattered on the ground, and made their footsteps uncomfortably loud. They stood by the lockers, gathering their thoughts.

"Right." Ford took a deep breath. "I say we check the smaller rooms first, and then we-" A scream pierced through the silence. Both boys forgot it was uncool to hold hands, and clung to each other.

"That way." Stan broke into a run, Ford close behind.

They crashed into the cafeteria. Fiddleford was crouched behind a table which he'd knocked over. He was shaking, and had something on his eye which Ford prayed was tomato ketchup.

"Fidds! What's goin'-" Stan broke off, as he was hit in the face by a grey chicken wing. It was cold and greasy. "HEY!" A cackle was heard, as the ghost appeared beside the enormous bin next to the kitchen. He was holding three more wings.

"Get over here quick!" The twins rushed to join Fiddleford behind the makeshift barricade. There was a muffled thud as several things hit the table.

"Is that a real ghost?" asked Ford excitedly.

"Yup." Fiddleford confirmed. "He's pretty darn set on takin' our souls. He fancied playing with me a little before, though. Hence the food fight." A fish's head and tail sailed over their heads.

"It's a fight he wants, huh? Well, he's got one!" Stan scooped up a pile of tomato pulp in a brown paper bag, and poked his head over the parapet. "Take that!" To his dismay, the missile simply _went through_ their opponent. "Yeah, probably shoulda seen that coming."

"Oh, good!" The ghost leered. "Putting up a fight at last! It was almost getting too easy. But I'd better nip this in the bud." He put down the objects in his hands, and advanced towards them.

"Nothing will hit that thing!" Ford realised. "We're toast!" Their barricade was stripped from them roughly, and the ghostly teacher laughed manically as he reached out a hand toward them.

"Now, which of you shall I put in Morris first? Of course, three little boys will be quite a squeeze, but I'm sure you'll manage, being such good friends. EENY - MEENY - MINEY - YOU!" His red flaming hand came down, and the boys shrieked, waiting for their souls to be dragged away.

And waiting...

Waiting still...

Hm.

"WH-WHAAT?!" cried the ghost, bringing back his hand. It was a great deal dimmer than the rest of him, almost non-existent. "How? How did you protect yourself?"

Ford and Stan stared at Fiddleford. In an act of pure reflex, he'd tried to protect them all with the head of the banjo. The instrument itself was glowing turquoise, and seemed unharmed. Fiddleford looked down at his new weapon, and shrugged. "I can work with this."

He held it up above his head. "There's more where that came from! Hai-YAH!" He whacked the malevolent spirit in the face with force which should have resulted in splintered wood. The banjo, however, did nothing but burn brighter.

"ARGH!" the teacher screamed, backing out of the hall and into the corridor. Fiddleford kept the banjo in front of him, with his most menacing expression on. At last they reached the doors, and the ghost looked at them in fear.

"I... I can't leave the school. Please. I'm too weak, I'll be destroyed."

"Look here, ya weird spirit thing!" Stan shouted. "We're putting you back in your dumb mascot form, and you're gonna _stay_ there, and not mess with anyone ever again! Or our friend Fiddleford will kick your ghostly butt!"

"Yes... yes... I will..." the teacher panted. "Just leave me alone!" And with that he disappeared through the door and into the night.

There was a moment's stunned silence, as Fiddleford's banjo dimmed, and finally lost its unearthly shade. Then the twins turned to him.

"Fidds, that was the most awesome thing I've ever seen!" Stan claimed breathlessly. "How did you do that?"

Fiddleford felt his ears burn red from the praise. "I don't know! We're alive, though! We did it, Diane!"

"Yeah! Wait... what'd you just call me?"

"Look, guys!" Ford interrupted from by the door. He held up a finger, which had a strange slime on it. "Genuine ectoplasm from an actual ghost! I'm gonna keep it in a jar next to my appendix!" He took a crisp packet out of his pocket, and scraped some of the substance into it. "This is the best day ever!"

"Ford. You may not have noticed, but we almost, y'know, _died._ " The twin made a vague noise of agreement.

"Uh-huh." He focused his attention on Fiddleford. "Your banjo was acting very strange. Do you have any idea why?"

 _"A wisdom passed from fall to spring..."_

 _"Separately they can be used as weapons."_

 _"...surviving through winter."_

"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I think I know. I promise I'll explain later. But this place gives me the creeps. Can we go?"

"Amen to that." Stanley reached out for the door. "Honestly, it's amazing that no one was hurt."

They looked out onto the street just in time to see a police car pull up, siren wailing, outside the gates. The officer in the driver's seat stared at them.

"Yeah..." Ford added shakily. "We'll get back to you on the whole 'no one getting hurt' thing, after we've faced our Pops."

* * *

 **Before he's even turned eleven years old, Stanford is showing symptoms of having what we'll call "Absent-Minded** **Professor Syndrome".**


End file.
